or enough uses, because I am the better behaved backseat driver and my husband likes control of the steering wheel. Until now, after his pacemaker surgery when he isn’t allowed to drive for a week.
And, yes, I do know which side of the car the gas tank is on and how to fill up. Does he know that when his arm is in a sling and he’s told not to use it for two days that includes the hand attached to the end of that arm?
The first night returning home from the Heart Hospital on the Turnpike alone – miles of construction with Florence and the Machine on CD, thinking of that snuff box tucked in his chest under his muscle and skin, running the abrupt angles and nothing visible but oblong red lights rushing and squeezed between concrete obstructions, I have sympathy pains. And the next day, when I return and bring him home. Yes, I know this road is blocked and that one narrows to one lane. Do you know who’s behind the wheel?
Little things – he can’t put on a shirt or button one without help, can’t sleep in our bed, can’t, when he attempts to prove his claim that this was a “minor” surgery and returns two days later to work and nearly passes out, be Bionic Man, can’t stop me from lecturing him. Do you know that they gave you pain meds for a reason? Do you know when they said you will be fatigued for two weeks to a month, that doesn’t just apply to other people?
I know carping doesn’t help, leave him napping in his recliner, feel the need to just get in the car and drive, alone, anywhere. A mile down the road a hawk rises from the field just outside the passenger window of the car. Instinctively, for one beat, I reach for my camera, which isn’t there, which I couldn’t grab if it were. Four beats, maybe five the hawk keeps pace before it lifts and is gone.